


awake my soul

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Character, Deaf Grantaire, Deaf!R, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:25:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only when he’d sit in his freezing, sleazy apartment, his nose stuck on the damp window, watching every single raindrop falling slowly until it’d meet with another and perish or bloom -he didn’t know which one of the two- he’d feel the familiar tapping of the rain in the back of his head, rhythmical and dull and painful in the way it’d seemed like it’d never stop when it hadn’t even started.<br/>*<br/>He was a vast explosion of red and gold, pale skin and burning eyes, but the most captivating thing about him was his cherry lips which moved passionately while he spoke. The world had been muted long ago but suddenly, by reading those lips, Grantaire could feel everything unheard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karolina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karolina/gifts), [Mysterious_Mouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysterious_Mouse/gifts).



> I tried my best to not make this offensive in any way, most of my experiences with a deaf person come from my beloved aunt, who is an artist and a role model to me.  
> I saw that gay couple at the beach, one of them was deaf and they were using sign language. They laughed and played in the sea and they were the most beautiful sight my eyes have ever beheld. That's what inspired me to write this.
> 
> I really hope you'll tell me your opinion and suggestions so that I can improve anything that's wrong in any way.
> 
> Dedicated to Karolina who I hope is well and happy, and I'm so sorry if this is wrong in any way.
> 
> Title from "Awake my soul" by Mumford&Sons.

The sound of the sea waves from that time he had visited Nice with his parents was now but a distant, vague memory. The singing of the birds outside his window was misty every time he would try to recall it, confusing, as was every occasion when people covered their mouths with their hands to share secrets, secrets which he could not share, a world they lived in, in which he was not invited. It was as if he witnessed the world turning around him, trapped behind a fuzzy glass wall. He could look but he couldn’t see, because the Universe spoke and he couldn’t hear it.

 

It was music that he missed the most, and sometimes he wondered if it was his fault. He missed the scratching of the old vinyl on his mother’s vintage pickup, he missed the sound the disks made when pulled out of their faded cases, he missed the way The Beatles and Elvis and Mozart and Édith Piaf touched his heart gently and his mind fiercely, took him by the hands and danced around the room, innocently, merrily. Maybe it was his fault for not caring for the colorful pictures on the cases as much as he should, that the voices and the instruments of his childhood decided to become silent. Maybe it was his fault for tearing the Nirvana case in pieces, staining the paper with tears of anger when he realized he couldn’t hear it again, that made the bitter pounding on the back of his head, the absence of the sounds permanent. Maybe it was his fault the world grew silent around him, for not embracing every sense when he could. Maybe it was his fault…

 

He was eleven when it’d happened. He was told he probably wouldn’t be able to hear again, unless a miracle would occur. He grew not to believe in miracles. It was difficult to cope with lessons when he couldn’t hear. His mother would try to teach him everything he’d missed in the morning while he was at home. When he’d go to his father’s to spend the weekend, he wouldn’t stop repeating how useless his son was in math. There were kids in school that laughed at his condition. He learnt to shut them away and keep to himself. Alcohol became his companion after he turned fifteen. Of course there were people who opened up to him, people who tried to make him trust, people who cared and struggled to help him, to convince him that he was nothing but normal, but he’d stubbornly decided long ago that he wouldn’t allow the world inside him. Not when this very world had shut him out so effectively.

 

He moved out for college, bitterly reconciled with the thought that he would stay on his own and live inside his head, muting every distorted vibration with whiskey and vodka. He’d walk alone to his flat every afternoon, his boots slowly crashing autumn leaves underneath them, but he didn’t wonder how it sounded anymore. He’d cycle on his bike around town but he wouldn’t try to remember what noise the wheels or the cars around him made. He’d drink his coffee while scratching the back of his cat’s ears and he’d watch her open her mouth lazily, but he’d try his best to force the meowing and the purring out of his mind. Only when he’d sit in his freezing, sleazy apartment, his nose stuck on the damp window, watching every single raindrop falling slowly until it’d meet with another and perish or bloom -he didn’t know which one of the two- he’d feel the familiar tapping of the rain in the back of his head, rhythmical and dull and painful in the way it’d seemed like it’d never stop when it hadn’t even started. It was sadistic in a way, his obsession to replay the grey, repeated and distorted sound. It reminded him of the sweet torture of every drop of alcohol, falling slowly in his veins, tap, tap, tap, like raindrops on the foggy window.

 

The way he’d try to force every sound out of his mind, forced him to stare intensely with his pale blue eyes. They lay upon those grey raindrops and embraced them tenderly, they made fierce love to the winter grey sea waves, they stroked the fallen leaves melancholically, they flirted uncontrollably with the birds in the parks he’d sometimes walk alone, with all the different colors on their feathers, with the shape of their beaks and the movements of freedom while they left the Earth and fled in the skies. The birds had managed what he was trying to: to be able to escape from a world that did little to hold them, from a world which did its best to disappoint them. The fact that his eyes learnt to love and to hate what his ears could not touch, made his hand to grab a pencil and start ravishing a piece of paper, his fingers to dig into buckets with paint and seduce the canvas. His art, alongside his alcohol, became his reality and his escape.

 

That, until he found them and strangely enough, they were like him. They could both hear, but they still lived inside their heads as their own decision. Sometimes they both tried to escape, even if it was through alcohol, sex and poetry. She was the first one he’d made love with. They loved each other deeply, but they realized that touching didn’t feel right because she felt like his younger sister. Sometimes she had bruises and dark circles under her red rimmed eyes, her hair was thick and knotted. He would hold her in his arms every time she’d cry sad and they’d drink together until they’d manage to forget, or to remember everything so painfully that it’d become conveniently unreal. He helped her move out of her family house and she learnt sign language. She loved another man, and he didn’t believe in love, not  _that_ kind of love. He knew he loved reading her lips, she always spoke quickly and it was a real struggle for him to understand, but she managed to slow down and move her fingers clumsily. It was a challenge for the both of them, and for then it was enough.

 

The other man had already learnt the sign language voluntarily even though he heard. The first time they met, he’d recite him a poem in it, his slender, delicate fingers moving gently. He was beautiful, dressed in flowers and clashing colors, a true orgasm for his hungry eyes which longed for the life and vividness his ears had been denied, and he always allowed him to paint him. When he’d let his ginger hair down from the plait, the paper underneath the pencils would blossom with millions of lilies, when he’d laugh and show all his pearl teeth, the canvas would become a feast of gardenias, when he’d press his pale lips together in melancholy and read by the window, the sketchpad would weep with purple hyacinths. They became best friends, always caring for each other, sharing their art and dreams.

 

They couldn’t help him believe, but they helped him love. Even though he remained cynical towards the world surrounding him, he learnt to love the colorful flowers and the cars which passed rapidly before him, and the lips pulled in a loud laughter, a laughter he couldn’t hear but could totally feel, in his chest, between his ribs, spreading like glowing warmth.

 

He even learnt to love the friction of his scruffy boots against the pavement during autumn. He became a member of their organization. Everyone accepted him and tried their best to communicate with him. He then felt comfortable to speak, even though he’d stopped doing so by choice all these years. He didn’t continue speaking but he knew that for once, his voice was accepted between those young people. He went to the bars and clubs with his new friends and he learnt to listen to the music other people listened to and moved their heads rhythmically without hearing, he learnt to accept and embrace every vibration coming from the loud basses everyone was dancing to and he danced as well, waving his hips in his very own rhythm, the rhythm of his friends smiles and touches on his hand and waist. It was the best night of his life.

 

He met him in the first meeting of the organization. He was a vast explosion of red and gold, pale skin and burning eyes, but the most captivating was his cherry lips which moved passionately while he gave a speech. He found himself lost in the man, the perfection he could never behold, the conviction and the faith he had long before lost. When the meeting came to an end, the man asked their friends to introduce them. When he realized, he slowed every movement of his lips and struggled to be understood. He didn’t need to. He would understand him even if he didn’t say a word.

 

Their opinions clashed in every possible way. Every meeting was an argument performed on a whiteboard or with heated, improvised sign language and movements of those glorious lips. They argued again and again, however he did everything to pay attention to what the blond man said, and the leader of the revolution started saying everything during the meetings slower and clearer, just for him to read his lips.

 

One of their arguments had been terrifying. He had drunk much more than he should; he knew it was his fault. They were both shouting, he could see the violent flush on the beautiful man’s cheeks, he could notice the frantic way his mouth moved, and for once he was thankful he couldn’t hear the voice he’d been dreaming of for months.

 

After their argument he’d drunk even more. He’d drunk so much until he could get everything out of his head; everything, apart from a dull buzzing which murdered him slowly.

 

And then, the next day, he received a visitor. It was him. All this time he had been learning the sign language without telling him anything. He stood on his doorway, the golden halo which surrounded his pale face gloriously shining in the sunlight, and his fingers moved.

 

_I’m sorry._

 

He didn’t know who did it, but then his chapped lips were pressed on that passionate, red mouth, sharing the intoxication through every mutual, warm breath. At that moment, he could swear he was able to hear his frantic heartbeat inside his body, as their fingers entangled and their chests pressed against each other.

 

His angel never again allowed him to feel alone, always pulled him on the surface if he’d try to drown in his own, dark abyss of alcohol and distortion. He didn’t need to hear. He had his touch, fingers wrapped around his wrist, fingers which talked instantly to his soul as they moved. He had his smile, lips always red and warm and smooth against his own, reassuring, loving, showing him he was needed every single moment. Every single word he read would feel differently inside him, warm or cold, purple or red or gold or black or green, it would taste like bitter coffee or passionate chocolate or sweet macarons and sour strawberries.

 

He didn’t worry for anything else anymore. He just sometimes wished he could hear his voice, that voice that stirred the people and touched their souls. But he didn’t feel sad for long, because that glance, this smile, those touches were not destined to the people. They were for his skin to burn, for his eyes to sigh.

 

They once went by the sea and sat in front of the waves. It was autumn and the wind was blowing against his ears. They were wearing a red jacket and a grey hoodie. They curled together, barefoot on the sand, as the breeze played with their hair. He was holding his hand. He noticed the bitterness in his glance and he tightened his grip around his fingers.

 

_Why do you stay?_

_Because I want to._

_I wish I could believe… In something… in this._

_Believe in me._

He fixed his blue eyes on the sea which resembled them. The sea understood.  _I do. I believe in you._

 

Every tender kiss his lover trailed on his shoulders, on his collarbone and lips, sent a different vibration, hot like the driest summer, harsh like the most terrific winter, with sweetness that the gentlest spring was jealous of, causing him the most precious melancholy of a mute autumn, with leaves crashed under his boot but always muted. He made love to him in the most beautiful way, and he didn’t need to hear the friction their clammy bodies caused when pressed together, he didn’t need to hear his lover’s moans and sighs. It was enough that he felt them on his skin, that he felt their pounding hearts pressed against each other, that he saw the serenity in the parted lips and the peace in the burning eyes when they lay in bed, arms and limbs wrapped around each other, breaths steady, golden and black curls a wild, incoherent mess all over the blessed pillows.

 

It was one of their friends who told him about the Cochlear implants one day, face flushed with excitement as he pushed his spectacles on the back of his nose. It was the rest of his friends who encouraged the idea.

 

He discussed it with him. Warm lips were pressed on his forehead and there was a silence, the loudest silence he had ever experienced.

 

_I only want what will make you happy. If this is what you want, then this is what I want._

 

He stayed with him when he took the decision; he was by his bedside when he opened his eyes after the surgery, dozed by the drugs. He held his hand and smiled, always silent but saying a million things at the same time.

 

Worry and disappointment sank heavily inside him. They allowed his friends to see him but he wished he would stay alone. He thought about the possible results all the time and that caused his heartbeat to throb madly in his head. He wasn’t sure about how he felt for not being able to hear it at the moment. He tried to mute every single thought and fear, but suddenly everything inside him became painfully noisy.

 

The day of the stimulation was two weeks later. He was with him and the assistant in the room when the monitor first worked. It was a terrifying collision of noise. The buzzing of the air condition, the scratching of his boot on the carpet, the sound of the machines… His first instant thought was that he needed alcohol.

 

And before he could manage to realize what was happening, before he could calm down and try to untangle every sound and every noise in his head, their eyes met and his heart caught on his throat.

 

“I love you,” he said slowly, moving his fingers accordingly.

 

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t focus to what their assistant was now saying, the world was spinning violently and suddenly it stopped and he tried to inhale but it was impossible, because the magical, soft, deep voice, coffee and chocolate and red and gold and summer and winter together seemed to draw all the air in the room.

 

Tears filled his blue eyes and his body started shaking as the beautiful man took his hands in his own and repeated slowly, without moving his fingers this time. “Can you hear me? I love you.” His body was shaken by enthusiastic laughter and he could hear it, he could hear it, the most serene, fierce, bright music in the world, and he could hear the sob that left his own throat and then more sobs as he brought his hands to cover his eyes.

 

He felt fingers wrapping around his wrists and pulling his hands gently away from his face, lips being pressed on his damp palms.

 

_“I love you…”_

 

He laughed between his tears, a laughter which sent vibrations all over his own body, and just before their lips met, he heard his own voice:

_“I believe you.”_


	2. Where you invest your love you invest your life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was like the universe had exploded in a million different sounds, every one of them washed in the colors which surrounded them, staining their skin, hair and clothes.
> 
> He took a brush in his hands and dag it in the same bucket of red paint. He bent forward, and between their bare feet, on the newspapers, he wrote his reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written as a (late, I'm so sorry) sequel to my first chapter, after Mysterious_Mouse's request (whom I thank so much for her lovely comments!) That's why I dedicate this chapter (and the first one, of course) to her, and I hope it was what she wanted to see!  
> Just some fluff, domesticity and smut. I hope you'll like it, and if anything I write connected with deafness is inaccurate or offensive in any way, please tell me so that I can correct it! I always appreciate your constructive criticism and opinions!
> 
> This is set before the ending of the first chapter (before Grantaire has the operation done and is able to hear again). Which means that yes, they're married/ready to get married when Grantaire finds the ability to hear again. Interpret it as you wish.

It all started with a plasma TV.

 

Some evenings after they made love, they just needed to stay inside and relax in front of the TV, despite their friends’ insistence for them to follow outside. It wasn’t about any particular show, really. All they wanted was to hold each other on the couch, curl together and share the warmth. He would rest his head on Enjolras’ chest and feel his steady heartbeat pounding reassuringly against his touch. That precious sentiment would stay in his head and give him strength throughout the rest of the day; it was like he could hear it. They threw their fingers through each other’s curls and held close as if nothing seemed more fearful than being parted.

 

He couldn’t hear the voices in the TV. Sometimes, when the actors or the journalists faced the camera, he could struggle to read their lips, but he didn’t really mind. He was curled in his angel’s arms and that was more than having been gifted all the stars of a summer night.

 

Enjolras once squeezed his arm, asking him to turn and face him. His beautiful, serene face was now fierce with anger like every time he spoke for oppression, inequality and injustice; one didn’t even need to hear the spoken words. It was enough to stare at those austere, glorious features being tense, those red lips pressed together and those glowing eyes burning with fire.

 

His lips and fingers had moved. _It’s absurd that they don’t have everything on TV on sign language too, or at least subtitled! Society will never come out of its fatal corruption if it doesn’t learn to treat everyone equally._

Grantaire had just smiled bitterly. _Don’t worry, one learns to live like that. I still have books and the internet to get informed. We can always borrow DVDs with subtitles for the hearing impaired when we need to watch a movie._

_It still frustrates me terribly. I can’t watch TV with you like that._

 

He had put a comforting hand Enjolras’ arm. _TV is full of bullshit anyway._

After that, every time they would sit in front of the TV, the other man started translating everything they heard in sign language for him. He had been surprised in the beginning and had felt slightly uncomfortable. He didn’t want to feel a burden for his lover, he told him that he didn’t need to do that.

 

 _I want to._ That was the reply he always received.

 

It soon became a habit that unveiled to him a whole new world, even if most of the time the TV did indeed show bullshit. This had been taken away from him ever since he was eleven years old, and now he had everything given back: the cooking, the documentaries for animals he didn’t know that existed, the silly prime time series, the news and the political debates –there was always the obligatory commentary on the latter. With the excuse of helping him watch TV, they started spending almost every night together. Their friends complained that they hardly ever went out with them anymore. Neither admitted it in the beginning, but for a while they needed to be alone with each other, not having their partner shared like they did during the numerous meetings, protests and duties for the group.

 

One night there was a music program on the TV. Grantaire had reached for the remote to zap to another channel but a hand had cupped his own, forcing him to stop. He had turned his head to stare at Enjolras who had already started translating the lyrics of the song which was playing at that moment. In the beginning he had some trouble understanding, because there was a name which he couldn’t easily figure out from the movements of the other’s lips. When faint memories from his childhood, from his beloved disc that scratched his mother pick up woke up, and he realized that it was The Beatles’ ‘Hey Jude’, he apologized with a gesture as burning tears inevitably filled his eyes. Enjolras held him steady and forced him to continue watching as he serenaded him in his very own way with his favorite childhood song until it finished, and he eventually could sob shamelessly like a baby in his angel's arms.

 

It continued with a shirt. Enjolras once spilt coffee on his own after they woke up in Grantaire’s apartment which now seemed to be shining with his partner’s own glorious light. Grantaire lent him a checkered blue and white button up shirt so that he could change before leaving. After a few days, Enjolras apologized for not having returned it yet. Grantaire shook his hands. _Keep it. I’ll take it when I come at your place._

When he visited his lover’s apartment, he opened the doors of the wardrobe to take a pair of clean towels and his eyes fell upon it. Enjolras had washed and ironed it, and the shirt was now hanging between his own clothes, waiting for him. His pulse quickened. For some reason he didn’t want to take it. For some reason seemed _right_ , like that shirt had been made for this hanger, between red and black and white and grey clothes.

Enjolras had entered the bedroom and saw him staring. He had come to stand near him. _It looks nice, doesn’t it? Maybe you should bring some more, for the times that you stay here._

He had stood there, staring at him for a while, frozen in his place. One shirt soon became four, four shirts became three pairs of jeans and sweatpants and finally a dozen pieces of underwear and sweaters.

 

And then there was the shelf on the bathroom. One morning, Grantaire found Enjolras’ shaving machine and foam, his after shave, cologne and toothpaste all crammed on one shelf, while the other was empty and clean. His toothbrush and razors were installed on it, and every day he woke up by his lover’s side, wondering what he had done to deserve something such happiness.

 

The end –or rather the true beginning- came with an easel and a few buckets of paint which occupied Enjolras’ study. With his art present, his life was more than complete: it was full.

 

Sometimes he still couldn’t believe it. It was as if he was still dreaming, even when he knew that he had just woken up, the gorgeous man near him still sleeping heavily, cuddling next to him after the first stray sunrays which entered the room, radiating warmth through his skin and nuzzling his face in Grantaire’s shoulder before he’d take the decision to wake up. On the weekends Grantaire would get up earlier and walk in the kitchen to make coffee and pancakes, having always stolen Enjolras’ t-shirt and underwear. The sleepy man would appear a little later, shirtless and glorious, so much that all Grantaire needed was to leave everything he was doing and place sloppy kisses on the curve of his throat, the hollow above his silver collarbone, his firm chest and flat abdomen, hold him and suck into his scent, meddled with the perfect smell of dark coffee and morning and peace. Touches were always enough, but especially when such scents and tastes filled his senses, Grantaire did not mind so much that he could not hear anything. The only thing he missed sometimes would be his lover’s voice, but then Enjolras would drag him in the shower, after they’d finish their breakfast, and they’d take their time to wash each other, dripping wet locks stuck on their skulls, warm drops of water running from their eyelashes, nose and lips, and he forgot everything that bothered him. He could sense the friction and the power of the water as it poured on him and it was as if he could listen to it. The blond man’s touch on him as he poured soap in his palms and rubbed his back between his shoulder blades, lowering to his spine, the way their lips met under the rain of the pouring shower, the privilege he got when being asked by Enjolras to wash his hair, massaging the darkened blond wet locks gently, the coconut scented steam that surrounded the,m were enough for him to feel in heaven.

 

Sometimes in the winter, when it was too cold to let their hair dry on their own, they would blow dry each other’s curls. His cat –that had moved in the apartment with him- got terrified every time he heard the sound of the hair drier and run away. He laughed; he was glad that he wasn’t able to hear such a horrific, frightening sound. He was lucky enough to be able to feel the warmth.

 

The cat didn’t like Enjolras at first. It had been used in the silence of Grantaire’s apartment and everything seemed foreign to her in the new one, but soon the three of them found themselves falling asleep together, curled on the couch. They spent hours playing with the cat, scratching it behind its ears and rubbing its belly, stroking her soft fur while watching movies together, and soon the cat and Enjolras became inseparable. It would sleep on his lap while he worked on his computer and he would caress her absent-mindedly. Grantaire could spend an eternity staring at the serene image.

 

They still had arguments, they never stopped. It wouldn’t be them otherwise, if they didn’t disagree every single day about what they’d have for lunch, at which friend’s apartment they would spend the evening, about philosophers and artists, about matrimony on the day of the equal marriage legalization. Lips would move frantically, causing a horrible buzzing to his head, fingers would take part in endless wars of getting their points across, filling him with unpleasant noise, doors would slam and he would feel alone, afraid, colder than ever, even if he the slamming and the shouting were muted. One night he had burst out of the apartment in the pouring rain, his head throbbing with anger, realizing how different they were, how painful it was that he could not find faith in everything that Enjolras believed in. How could he when he had been bereft of the ability to live his life like other people did? How could he give faith in anything that had betrayed him, in the old paper cases of the vinyl discs which had deceived him, of the rain which was mocking him, pouring on his hair and filling his shoes, soaking his clothes and hitting his skin without making any sound?

He stayed at Jehan’s. He didn’t manage to sleep. Somewhere in the middle of the night he saw the poet walking to open the door in his flannel pajamas. He hated everything, he hated his luck, he hated Enjolras and his strenuous efforts to make him believe, he hated his best friend who could hear the bell that had probably rang, he hated himself for not being able to.

 

It was him, dark blond ringlets dripping on the lilac carpet, soaked to the bone, standing before him. His heart almost stopped. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t face the perfect, flawless man with equal respect for him and for his own self.

 

Slender, feminine fingers had moved.

 

_I’m sorry. Come back._

He learnt to _have_ faith in those who gave faith to him. He learnt to always have faith in the angel with the marble skin and the red lips.

 

There was that time when they spread newspapers on the floor of the study, an excellently furnished, simple room in beige and brown tones, completely decorated by Combeferre. Enjolras had emptied it from the furniture and covered the huge bookcase with old bedsheets. Grantaire didn’t believe in his eyes.

 

_What are you planning do?_

The blond man leaned to kiss him, smiling against his chapped, thin lips. He pulled back and his fingers moved. _I need a change of environment, will you help me?_

All the buckets of color that Grantaire ever owned were placed neatly next to each other upon the newspapers, and his brushes were put in order in front of them in a way only Enjolras would think of. Their eyes met and he felt his breath catching on his throat. The ruthless, serious revolutionary he had once met had changed tremendously. He remembered Eponine’s fingers moving two days ago.

 

You _have changed him._

He didn’t dare to believe that their relationship could have such an impact on the man.

 

They spent the rest of the day spilling and throwing paint on the white wall with their brushes, jumping and shouting and letting the air fill their lungs, a mess of hands and curls and lips covered in paint stains, red and black and green and blue, purple on the tip of their noses, yellow behind their ears, orange and magenta on their shirts and dungarees. For once he didn’t mind whether he could hear his voice or not. He just screamed, danced and jumped, feeling freer than he had ever felt in his entire life.

 

The scene was so glorious, dripping colors from the walls, an orgasmic explosion of all shades and hues, that he swore he didn’t need to hear a thing. Soon they were sprawled against the colorful newspapers, teeth clashing and lips pressed together, lost in a fight that tasted of wine and coffee and paint, limbs tangled and fingers wrapped around each other.

 

The love they made that day was richer than ever, full of scents, tastes and colors, lips pressed tenderly against sweaty shoulders, teeth digging on curvy throats and hands cupping firm hips and thighs. Enjolras whispered loving words against his things and he understood every single one of them, he felt his every muscle throbbing with anticipation, he allowed himself to be loud for the other man, he wasn’t ashamed anymore. He sighed and moaned his name, again and again as he filled him, their hips moving in unison, bodies dancing and struggling together, ragged breaths and frantic heartbeats, a mess of wild locks, golden and black with streaks of red and green and blue, a revolution against all odds above the black and white of the newspapers.

 

They collapsed on the floor, holding each other tightly in their arms, their foreheads uniting, heartbeats synchronized as their clammy chests pressed together. When their erratic breathing grew steady, Enjolras moved his hands, asking Grantaire to go and bring them a towel to clean themselves. The dark-haired man obliged, lazily, punching him playfully on the shoulder. When he returned, his heart almost exploded out of his chest.

 

On the only remaining wall which had not been painted yet, was written in huge, calligraphic letters, still dripping red paint, the words _I love you,_ and an incredibly fast Enjolras who had even managed to throw his t-shirt and boxers on, took a step forward and got on one knee.

 

It was true that one image could speak a thousand unheard words, and Grantaire’s frantic heartbeat was now echoing the same three bright, enormous red words before his eyes. _I love you, I love you, I love you…_ they pounded madly through every vein, every muscle, his whole being moved in unison with every syllable. His icy blue eyes were wide open in shock and he froze to his place as Enjolras took his hand in his own and brought it to his lips, pressing them on his knuckles, on his pulse point, on his open palm and on every single finger, slowly, tenderly, feather weight, chaste kisses that felt like heaven, before sliding a simple, silver ring on his finger.

 

He felt his knees bending and his legs going limp. It was completely surreal, him standing barefoot and completely naked in the middle of a room with walls from which all the colors he could imagine were dripping, the brightest, most passionate love confession painted in red and the most stunning man he had ever seen kneeled before him, his lips and fingers moving in unison, in a perfectly synchronized slow motion.

 

_Will you marry me?_

Grantaire had never seen Enjolras so scared and unsure, cheeks flushed and hands shaking slightly.

The world stopped turning for a while, in the way the man had begged for it to do for years.

It was like the universe had exploded in a million different sounds, every one of them washed in the colors which surrounded them, staining their skin, their hair, their clothes...

He took a paintbrush in his hands and dug it in the same bucket of red paint. He bent forward, and between their bare feet, on the newspapers, he wrote his reply.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God I just realized how stupid this piece of pointless fluff was. I'm so sorry for ruining the story but I really needed to write it!


End file.
